Shadowpath

By William Thomas Maxwell

In the shadows, in the places we never look, someone is trying to break the world. Only this time, it wants--it needs--an audience and Dr. Elisabeth Frost, full-time psychologist, part-time author, has just obtained a backstage pass to the whole event.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781938692918

Book preview

faith.

CHAPTER 1: THE FOREVER DANCE

The clouds came out of the west, where the dead things go, and paused over the length of the sky, heavy with possibility. Slowly, they wrestled for supremacy, slamming together in futile displays of light and fury.

Below, in a single, simple room, in an ordinary house, water pooled on the floor in defiance of anything simple or ordinary. Then it dripped upward toward the ceiling, a sharp shock of thunder repealing itself into silence, followed by a terrible stillness in time and space.

From that hollowed-out moment stepped the Man. Piercing eyes set in a sharp, angled face swept the room. The Man’s stance and build was one of a lean fighter, a hunter, by experience if not by nature. The light scars that could be traced on his hands and face spoke to experience and the price he’d paid for those skills.

Out of habit, he identified things that could harm him, different meanings given to ordinary objects: needles left in a sewing basket (could be inserted into knees or eyes), a rocking chair (could be broken into clubs, shattering bones, rupturing internals), a glass frame cradling a family photo (could be shattered into a dozen slivers, opening veins, severing muscles).

The Man absently smoothed the wrinkles from his raincoat and offered a silent prayer to whatever forces might be watching. He extended his senses to the hallway, moving near-silently on the balls of his feet. Rain fell, covering the necessary evils of tiny sounds; the creak of a floorboard, the shift of an opening door. Smells permeated the hall—a meal of some kind: some kind of roasted meat, potatoes and, beneath that, a lingering taint of less wholesome fluids.

The Man’s jade eyes adjusted to the light, noting patterns scratched on the wall, arcane symbols in an ancient tongue, mathematical formulas only a madman could follow.

The dining room was an abattoir, neat cuts of meat carved off victims’ bellies and piled onto fine china, the remainder of the scene set to pure Rockwell: victims frozen in the act of enjoying a meal, clothes neatened and clean, implements sewn delicately to their hands, faces stitched up so smiles would stay in place. Where was the blood? The little girl’s arm was positioned like she was stealing a piece of cake.

The Man held back a storm of reaction, and that was when the attack came—sideways, from the kitchen: metal forks, skewers, simple tools hurled at lethal speeds. The Man ducked away from them and surged forward into the kitchen. His mistake—the tile floor was covered in crockery, every dish in the cabinets shattered, every glass crushed so the shards would jab into his boots; the Man cursed, backpedaled and pulled several of the larger bits out before finding another way outside.

With a fireplace poker in hand, his prey was on the front lawn, laughing, his face and expression an aged, warped reflection of the Man’s own. The prey beckoned him deeper into the rain. The Man stepped into shimmering droplets to close in; he was slower because of the mud, but that was good—his prey would be slower too.

Inside the prey’s reach, the Man accepted a cut to gain control of the poker. The two men circled each other, matching sets of green eyes weighing options. Like the samurai of legend, they ran scenarios through their imaginations. A kick to the knee? No. He would counter with a downward sweep, follow up blow to the left kidney. That was obvious. Hook to pull out the eyes? Just as risky. Wrist grabbed, snapped up, broken. They thought these through and more, two men, circling in the rain. Around them, the world narrowed in anticipation.

It was the Man who broke the spell, who darted in, testing. His older prey just gave him that smirk and drew back to counter…

And missed. The blow hit, hard enough to surprise, not hard enough to cripple. Where there would have—should have—been a follow-up strike, there was a shocked pause. The Man blinked, startled. He never got in a hit. He was outmatched by his prey and always had been. Then he smiled.

His prey was getting older, losing the edge. His prey’s self-assured smirk lost a little of its curl and a new surge of confidence buoyed the Man. There was a chance, however slim, that this time, he would win.

It was on, full press, with no quarter asked or given. The key to the prey’s survival was to keep that poker out of the action, to stay in close and not let the extra reach of the weapon come into play. For the Man, his ally was time. The longer they fought, the more tired the prey would become and with that, possibly, just possibly, the chance of a new mistake.

The prey fought ferociously, mouthing unheard prayers to a sky unleashing a curtain of water. The scenery turned surreal, flashes of crimson and sky blue splashing the landscape, until the Man realized that the lights heralded a new and very real danger from outside their circle.

A saying, an old saying, came to mind: Old age and trickery will always overcome youth and ambition.

  There came a shout from the street. The Man’s attention diverted for a moment and the intensity of a spotlight blinded him. The prey faded into the shadows even as the Man raised the poker to protect his eyes. Realizing his mistake, the Man threw the weapon away just as a gunshot went wide, hitting the mud next to him. Quickly, he shouted surrender, allowing time for his eyes to adjust. The burst of rain stopped with the suddenness of a spigot shut off, leaving the Man visible and alone.

Two police cars, four men: one was focused on the house, his posture leading the Man to think someone had called the murder in; one was by the cars on the radio; the third focused on his partner; and the last one—the shooter—attended solely to the Man.

The Man let his shoulders slump, releasing the tension, showing he’d given up. The cop, in defense of his profession, never let his aim waver. But being only human his focus strayed to the others as they walked toward the house. That’s when the Man acted.

Escape was out of the question; assault was mandated. The Man hit the nearest officer first—the one going toward the house—and, with a single move, disarmed and pulled him in front of him, creating a human shield. The second officer was downed when the Man yanked out the billy-club his hostage carried and cracked it alongside the second cop's skull.

A shot pulled wide as the armed policeman tried desperately to miss the trapped officer. The Man didn’t give enough time for anyone else to react. Using the helpless officer as a shield, he rushed the lead shooter.

It was the mud that betrayed the Man; a chance step of a slippery boot on a paved road threw him off balance. The officers’ training kicked in and tasers bit into the Man’s flesh.

Then, the cops came at him—night sticks held in clenched fists, breath released in short angry puffs. The tasers lit him up, lightning arching across every nerve, and the night sticks fell with a crack.

He could hear the sound of thunder…

CHAPTER 2: DREAMS OF A WELL-ORDERED MIND

Elisabeth’s dreams were never kind.

Fleshless faces…

—pressing in

Half-birthed horrors mewling about

The agony of existence

The pain of separation

Of being other…

God, to be young and needing again.

Hating the pain.

Hating the fear

Wanting only to be loved…

†

Elisabeth woke to screaming. It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t just her own voice.

Where the hell had she left the phone?

There it was, somehow under the damned nightstand. As she lunged for it, she could still make out the fading outline of nightmare faces. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, persistent faces pressing up against waking life; it wouldn’t be the last. Shaking off that last stray web of fear, she missed the opening greeting just by a beat.

Who is this again? she asked.

Ha! Not awake then? Guess not. I can tell—tone of voice that is. You were such a jerk in the mornings. ’Course, I mean that in a good way, honey. A close-clipped tone with a slightly southern accent…

Elisabeth’s mouth quirked up. Hello, Susie.

That would be Detective Susan Forrester, Liz, if you want in on this one. Elisabeth straightened up. Susie kept talking, That’s right, my dear. We have a live one.

Elisabeth frantically searched the night table for a pen, ripping a page out of her dream diary. Details, she replied and started to write.

†

Detective Mark Stewart wasn’t what you’d describe as handsome. A jaw a little too square and a hairline a little too thin. Most days, his offhand smile would soften that up, but today wasn’t one of those days.

His job was to sort through the worst of humanity and try to put some sense to their acts. Most of the time, he failed. It wasn’t that he didn’t catch folks. He did, regularly enough to get promoted and decorated every few years. It was when you had a little boy castrated because his dad wanted to teach him a lesson or a young woman violated with tin foil, that putting the perps in prison or seeing them executed didn’t seem to scratch the surface of the idea of justice.

Sometimes Mark prayed, just hoping that next time he could feel some of that closure he was supposed to be working for. He wanted the chance to be the hero, to stop the bad thing before it happened instead of playing the gruesome janitor to one abominable cleanup after the next.

Apparently, whatever forces ran the universe felt the fact that Mark still could smile was miracle enough. Because today was one of those very bad days.

The guy from the crime lab cleared his throat. Detective?

Mark rubbed his temples. All right—give it to me again, Mark suppressed the urge to curse. What the hell was this guy’s name? Ah… now he remembered. Weasel. Starting with the part that goes ‘We’ve got no evidence,’

Weasel was the nickname for one of the crime lab techs; greasy black hair, beady eyes, nasal voice and a flat forehead giving him more than a passing resemblance to his carnivorous namesake. He clutched a file on the suburban house murders and nervously brushed his bangs away from his eyes.

Weasel fervently hoped Mark wasn’t the type of man who’d shoot the messenger. "Well, we know he was there, sir. He was arrested on site and he doesn’t live anywhere nearby—we think. Mark winced. Weasel kept going. Nil on fingerprints; either he didn’t touch anything or wore gloves. We’re still looking for a hit on IAFIS. No hair or fibers on the scene that we’ve found yet… and no weapon."

Cops who answered the call saw him carrying a poker.

I’m sorry, Detective. It never made it into evidence.

What about the car mounts? The cameras must have caught something.

No sir… um… problem with the rain.

Mark resisted the urge to throttle something. And the tox screen was negative?

Yes sir.

Causing trouble, Weasel? quipped a woman.

Mark looked up. Two women were coming down the hall. One of them was a short, stout, attractive redhead whose easy smile masked a biting temper: Detective Forrester from Vice. Her purpose in life was to push people hard: friend, family, or guy in an interrogation room. It was even more fun (for her, of course) when they pushed back.

The woman with Detective Forrester looked like someone who didn’t care to be pushed around. She moved with the surety of someone in control. It was her eyes that did it, piercing blue, framed by brown hair in a manner that made her look poised and confident in an unimposing way. And based on the way she scanned the room, she had some self-defense training too, showing the kind of unconscious semi-paranoia that instruction offers. The face—her face—complemented her eyes, angular but not severe cheekbones, glasses lending a look of hungry intelligence and a powerful curiosity.

That the ‘book lady’? asked Mark.

The ‘book lady’ it is, Susan replied.

Elisabeth extended her hand. Dr. Elisabeth Frost.

Detective Mark Stewart. Psychiatrist?

Psychologist. My clinical specialties are dissociative identity disorder and paranoid schizophrenia.

And then there’s the book.

Yes, Detective; and there’s the book.

All right. First question, doc, my tox-free suspect was showing speed and strength I’ve only seen in junkies. Thoughts?

Putting aside designer drugs, which I’m sure you’ve considered, some psychotics exhibit extra-normal strength under the right circumstances. Given the right conditions, the human body can move almost a half-ton.

All right. Then why don’t I get to play Superman once in a while?

It has to do with biomechanics. The more you lift, the more chance you have of ripping your muscles right off the bone. You might care about that but psychotics don’t. Their metabolisms tell them that pain’s not relevant. Or they don’t process the perception like you or I do.

Mark nodded. Fair enough. He turned to Weasel. Weasel, pictures. Weasel handed several photos over to Elisabeth.

And now we get to your other field of expertise. We found these symbols scattered all over the location, mostly starting with the murder scene but also stretching into a hallway and ending outside a sewing room, said Mark. "The techs think he left them there as a deliberate trail—but to where? And why?

Elisabeth pointed to one of the sigils on the picture. I saw something similar to this on a fresco in Paris. We’re looking at western tradition, probably Thelemic in nature.

Would you like to translate that from geek-speak? Mark asked.

Elisabeth looked back at him. We’re not talking about some wanna-be Satanist. This stuff requires serious study. Usually, we see it with chaos magicians.

‘Chaos’ magicians? Weasel repeated.

Elisabeth lifted her glasses to rub at a corner of her eye. They're people who force their will onto a ‘disordered, amoral universe.’ ‘Do what thou wilt’ is the only law they follow.

You’re talking about this as if it was real, Mark said.

What? Sorry. Elisabeth grinned and pushed her glasses back up on her nose. "Hazard of the profession. Since I write about occult crimes, sometimes I make the occult sound real. It’s a drama thing. But, no, Detective, as much as I would love to find the rhyme and reason behind the universe, no run-in with ‘real magicians,’ no consorting with demons, monsters or whatever; just plain old people doing strange, interesting and often obscene things. Elisabeth turned back to the pictures. What I have found is just how far people go to justify their beliefs, everything from blood libels in Europe to human sacrifices in Central America. History is full of atrocities committed in the hopes of answering the basic questions: Where did we come from; who are we; why are we here?"

Mark closed his eyes for a moment, as though that might help him better understand the situation. So our perp is—what? Some sort of religious fanatic?

Could be. Is there a tape of the interrogation?

Haven’t done it yet. Doctor had to check him out first.

Can I observe?

Mark shot a glance at Susie. Her paperwork in order?

True to form, Susie pushed back. She's been a big help in the past, Mark, she emphasized.

He looked back at Elisabeth. I’ll save you a seat.

CHAPTER 3: BETWEEN THE WORDS

Standing next to Susie in the observation room, Elisabeth allowed herself a small smirk. The interrogation room was old school; a two-way mirror and, on the other side, fluorescent lighting, flickering lazily across white stucco walls. A large, clean wooden table stood in the center of the room. The chairs were cracked metal and had Return to Fr. M. K., St. Orione painted on the back of them. Someone had tried to modernize the place by adding a video camera.

The center of attention was the Man. He was seated at the far end of the table, his presence unnerving, his stare intense. His hands had been bound behind him with the plastic cuffs used on PCP addicts. It didn’t seem to discomfort him in the slightest.

Detective Stewart was finishing the preliminary setup. Elisabeth took the opportunity to focus beyond the words, studying their interaction. Stewart was taking an indirect approach. Did the Man know where he was, what he was charged with, did he want a lawyer? He laid out some pictures of the victims, changing tactics, appealing smoothly to the Man’s conscience, to his civic sense of duty. Didn’t he want to talk about it?

As he spoke, Stewart presented some general details of the crime that he hadn’t discussed with Elisabeth—there were three deaths, an unusual amount of gore and decidedly psychotic but thorough preparation. At each step, the detective was encouraging, trying to draw the Man out. He was met with terse, noncommittal answers or silence.

Stewart tried a third tack, started talking about his own family, his mother and father. He wondered if the Man had a family. The Man’s forehead wrinkled, a reaction, though a subtle one; the Man didn’t like talking about family.

Mark took the cue and spoke about the dead again: mother, father, daughter. At the mention of them, a peculiar chill ran across Elisabeth. Then, something strange happened. The Man turned his attention toward the two-way mirror. He started mouthing something quietly.

What’s he saying? Susie asked.

Elisabeth watched his lips. "Um… wait… ‘Ne respondeas stulto iuxta stult…’ damn it… oh! ‘Stultitiam…’"

Wait. What language is that?

Latin, Elisabeth replied. Oh! I got it. ‘Ne respondeas stulto iuxta stultitiam suam ne efficiaris ei similis.’

What does that mean?

"Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou be made like him. It’s from the Bible. Proverbs 26, um, verse 4 or 5, I think. I guess that means the interrogation isn’t going well?"

Susie grimaced. I just want to know how the hell he knows someone back here speaks Latin.

He probably doesn’t. But he does know someone’s watching him. Elisabeth quietly shifted her position. That’s unnerving.

What?

Look at him. His eyes are directly on me. He’s tracking me.

Not sure that means anything, Liz. He might be good at spotting shadows.

Stewart snapped his fingers, demanding attention. When that didn't work, he physically got between the Man and the mirror. Elisabeth turned back to Susie. Can I talk to him?

Susie hesitated, then looked back to Mark in the room, noting his increasing frustration. No promises, she replied. But I’ll try.

†

The first thing Elisabeth noticed about the Man was a strange scent: spicy, like citrus, with a feline musk. He had dark hair that hadn’t been cut in a while, stress lines around the eyes and mouth, some stubble showing a bit of premature graying. His clothes were ill-fitting thrift-store poor. Homeless was her first thought, probably due to mental illness.

Hello, she said. My name is Dr. Frost. There was no response. She sat down at the table and spread out the pictures of the occult symbols they'd found at the murder scene. She kept her expression calm. Did you write any of these? The Man glanced down at them and then back up at Elisabeth. His stare made her feel small.

She shifted her eyes away from him and back to the photos. I find this one interesting, she said. "‘Eiecitque Adam et conlocavit ante paradisum voluptatis cherubin et flammeum gladium atque versatilem ad custodiendam viam ligni vitae.’ Latin, isn’t it? Genesis 3:24. It talks about the exile from Eden. There was no direct response but the Man regarded her with more interest. What really fascinated me, though, was this. You won’t find this in your standard Bible. Elisabeth pushed her glasses back on her face and intoned the words, Ol sonf vors g, gohó Iad Balt, lansh calz vonpho…."

"Sobra zol ror i ta nazpsad, graa ta maplprg," the Man responded. Casarm ohorela taba Pir; Soba ipam, lu ipamis. Everyone in the room started at the sound. Clear, decisive and frighteningly direct.

Who are you? she asked and then mentally kicked herself. If she moved too fast, she would jeopardize the interview. The Man surprised her with a response. "Zir ar ds insi a rorors."

Elisabeth took a breath. She had to slow herself down; her poise—what she presented to others—was more show than substance. When the adrenaline was flowing, when things got unpredictable, she was prone to act a little rashly. That which walks in shadows, she translated. A ‘shadow-walker’?

As good a description as any.

And you want us to call you Shadow-Walker? Or do you have another name? Elisabeth asked.

Try this—case 98-16-A652, listed in the Gabriel County police files, precinct 17, under inactive.

Mark nodded to Susan, who left the room. Why’s that important? Elisabeth asked.

The Man glared at her fiercely. "It was the first time I met him. When he killed my wife."

Him? Elisabeth cocked her head.

The Man gave Elisabeth a thin-lipped smile. The person you’re looking for: the murderer.

So you know him? Mark asked gently.

It doesn’t matter what I tell you. Even if I gave you details, introduced you to him, you couldn’t stop him.

Hell, if it doesn’t matter, then why not help us out? said Mark.

The Man looked over at Mark. Because I don’t want more blood on my hands. His face twisted with contempt. You don't understand what you're getting into. You can't understand. You’ll just end up getting killed.

Mark shook his head. I’ve heard the rhetoric before. The answer’s always the same. It’s my job—not yours.

Detective, have you ever seen somebody standing at a bus stop and looked again to find he's vanished? Or chased someone down a dead end to find they've gotten away?

Mark had a flash of memory, a foot chase down an endless alley, a dead end with sheer walls and no doors or windows. He never found the suspect, never figured out how he’d eluded him. What's your point?

The person you’re looking for, the Man replied, is a shadow, a mystery. You'll never stop him. You don’t have the ability.

A shadow. Elisabeth seized on the word. Is he a shadow-walker like you?

How do I explain this to you? You live in a world where things are supposed to make sense. But this isn’t one of those things.

Wait, Mark interrupted, Shadows and mysteries—ghosts, really—you have to know that by itself, in a court of law, it means nothing. He leaned forward, putting his hands firmly on the table. "You are the prime suspect in a triple homicide. At the very least, admitting to knowing the other killer makes you a possible accessory. Then there’s the incident with the officers at the scene. This makes it look bad for you, unless you give us something to work with…"

The Man laughed softly. "You think I don’t know your tactics, Detective? The ‘good cop.’ The ‘bad cop.’ You don’t have anything and you’re unprepared. Your case is prima facie, using facts not yet in evidence. Yes, I know the law. You will find a preponderance of evidence indicating that a second man was present, the man I was looking for, and that he alone was responsible for the murders. You’ll find it because he’s bragging to you; he’s telling you straight up that you’re not going to be able to catch him. Then I’ll be free and the chase will start again."

Mark held back a jab of frustration. There’s still the matter of assaulting an officer, he responded, pulling away from the Man. Resisting arrest. Attempted kidnapping.

We’ll see, said the Man.

The door opened, and Susan returned with a printout. Mark took the papers and flipped through them with quick efficiency. It’s Jack Harris, isn’t it? You could have saved us the trouble and cooperated at the outset. That way, we might have avoided the obstruction of justice charges I’m now filing.

Ah! You think you’re in charge now that you have more facts. Let me assure you, my file explains little in regards to my current situation or this case.

Then why did you bring it up? Mark asked as he handed the paperwork over to Elisabeth. She skimmed through it. Jack Harris had been a lawyer, summa cum laude from an Ivy League law school, working for a national firm, transferred west on a promotion. On the way west, there had been an accident and his wife was killed. Harris reported it as a murder, despite a lack of corroborating evidence, and later suffered a nervous breakdown because of it. While still technically open, the police considered it a cold case, filed and forgotten.

Elisabeth took what she had and reassessed the man in front of her. This wasn’t a superman; not someone scary. This was someone suffering from a severe emotional disconnect after the death of a loved one. This was someone neurotic, rage-filled and arrogant, with a penchant for detachment (a trait that would have made him a great lawyer) that let him remain in control. Even his wife’s murderer may have been an invention to mitigate his culpability in her death. Now that she understood him, she could even sense a world-weariness about him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been on the other